by Dan O'Brien
Dean looked at the woman in shock. Her harsh words were so unlike the woman to whom he had become accustomed. His words were caught in his throat. “Yes, of course.”
He disappeared into the darker regions of his residence. The hollow echoes of his footfalls faded into the shadows of the cold night. Leane looked down at T’elen and grimaced. “What happened?”
She opened her eyes slowly. The swollen rings struggled to see Leane. Her throat tightened, swallowing hard as if she couldn’t breathe. “Ambushed.”
Leane sighed hard.
The general’s words were as she had suspected all along. The Intelligence would catch wind of them and a systematic elimination would ensue, and so it had. “How many were there? How many did Fe’rein send?”
“Not Fe’rein….”
She paused, swallowing hard once more.
“Kyien.”
That Leane had not expected. The High Marshal was brash and crass with his words, but he seemed like a man who would send assassins. He was influenced by power––one who sought gain in every opportunity that presented itself.
“Why would the High Marshal risk such a thing? The force that lies within Illigard rivals that of the Culouth Commerce armies.” The question was truly moot, for her ability to speak was weakened. The combination of the cold and the beating she took had worn her severely, almost to the point of death.
“The––Deliberations….”
“I don’t understand.”
Leane shook her head.
“I––spurned….”
Her chest heaved as she spoke.
Her fists clenched as she struggled to speak.
“Insulted him? That is the reason for all of this?”
“Kyien,” she whispered again.
Leane waited.
“Wished…” Leane held back her questions, allowing the woman to speak. “For both our deaths,” she finished, her body sagging once more.
“Kyien wished for your death as well as…”
“As well as––Fe’rein,” T’elen completed.
Leane sat back in contemplation.
Not a moment too soon Dean reemerged, kit and supplies in hand. He knelt beside T’elen, his attention completely focused on what Leane had said, paying no attention to the drained look on her face. He lifted T’elen’s shirt over her head, revealing tan skin underneath.
Tattoos covered her body, tribal, runic representations of things only she was meant to understand. Two irregularly shaped bruises lined her torso. A long gash from where she broke through the glass wall ran from her shoulder down her back. Dean touched it gingerly and was greeted immediately by a flash of cold anger.
“The gash is not deep, surface tears mostly. The two bruises are rather extensive and will take some time to heal. The frost has caused some tissue damage as well. She will need real bed rest,” explained Dean with the precision of a medic.
T’elen looked as if she wished to speak, but instead winced as she tried to push her weight up. Leane’s firm grip held her down, and she met the fierce gaze of the general. “No way to work around that, T’elen. I don’t know how you made it here in one piece, but these storms will make transport difficult for some time. You need rest, Dean is right.”
“He––must––pay.” Her words were feral, made more so by the pain that flooded her body and mind.
Leane could relate to her anguish; she had never liked Kyien. He was the proprietor of the Citadel, its highest keeper. Many nights when Leane was alone, she thought of Seth in that terrible place. “They will all be made to pay,” replied Leane with a dark edge to her voice.
Dean’s mind was the more tactical, more prone to logics than to fleeting passions. “How did you make it this far in your condition?”
The nearest transportation outlet was more than ten miles outside of Duirin, a necessary distance for those who conspired against Culouth. It allowed them time to hide and cover what was necessary.
T’elen smiled.
“I walked,” she croaked.
Her smile widened as much as she was able.
Dean stood, his doctoral scowl deepening.
“No wonder you are in such a condition.”
“No point arguing that now,” put in Leane. The thin smile was a contagion, for she too smiled at Dean, his hands planted on his hips like a midwife.
“Still…” He tried to argue the point further.
Leane called for silence with a simple swipe of her hand. “There is a far more pressing issue. They know now that we are conspiring against them. The attempt to assassinate T’elen is evidence enough.”
“Such a conspiracy must be held together at many levels.” The logic was sound, but the doctor was not digging deep enough.
“Kyien wants to get rid of Fe’rein as well. There must be a level of understanding among them. Each only knows enough to take care of the most immediate target.”
“Meaning what?” Dean scowled and raised a hand to his chin.
“That neither knew that they were conspiring against the same individual, T’elen. Each had separate agendas, yet the outcome was the same. They strike at each other from opposite ends, but mean to undermine the other, to eliminate their political foes. They want to see themselves as the right hand of the Intelligence.”
Dean nodded his head.
T’elen did so as well, but much weaker.
“Kyien cannot––defeat Fe’rein,” spoke T’elen.
The words were a struggle for her.
“Not in a physical sense. If he could make M’iordi and the others turn on Fe’rein, then the Intelligence would have to alter their choice,” volunteered Dean, beginning to unravel the tense and layered political web of the Culouth Commerce.
“The Intelligence favors––their––war.”
Leane nodded.
“They also wish for a champion, one to raze the others.”
“What about Fe’rein? He is their warrior, an extension of them,” reasoned Dean.
“He will always be their warrior. That cannot change. But the face of the people, of the government, is what’s at stake,” replied Leane with a shake of her head.
“How long until Kyien becomes bold enough to march on Duirin, or even Illigard?” challenged Dean, sensing now the tide of the conversation.
“To march on Illigard––they would first––have to pass through the wasteland.” She winced. Closing her eyes, she waved her hand for added effect.
“The wastelands would pose quite a problem for legions. The swamps have swallowed armies of Umordoc, long before the House of Te’huen. Ancient texts have spoken of the wastelands as a monster trapped by one of the Ancients deep inside the earth and that the swamps were an extension of its hate. Deep mineral deposits from civilizations past interfere with communications,” spoke Dean.
“Then how long before they find us here in Duirin? It is no secret that the Resistance holds a loose faction here. They will not be able to stand against the entire might of Kyien’s forces. He would march right over them and on to Illigard, no matter how long it takes,” spoke Leane.
Dean stood and turned away from them, placing one hand on his chin and the other across his chest. The old man paced. He moved away from the cauldron and into the darker recesses of the residence.
“The Resistance will have to move to Illigard. There we can perhaps set up some kind of defense against what Kyien and Culouth will bring down on us,” spoke Dean, all the mirth in his voice gone. The sudden despair in his voice caught both women unaware.
“We?” replied Leane. A confused look spread across her face.
“Dean––Y’re––is Resistance,” spoke T’elen as she struggled with the words.
“I am a faction commander of the Resistance. I have been since Ryan returned with the power that should have been Seth’s. It seemed like the only thing I could do to make things right,” conceded Dean, turning and meeting Leane’s gaze.
“Why would you hide that from me? I harbor
no allegiance to Culouth,” spoke Leane after a time, visibly hurt by their distrust of her.
“It wasn’t you––it was––Fe’rein,” answered T’elen.
Dean paced toward the cauldron once more. “Fe’rein is rather perceptive. The more that you knew, the more likely he was to catch wind of something. Elcites also thought it best to keep as much from E’Malkai and you as possible.”
“But I was a part of the Resistance,” she challenged, her dark eyes accusing.
“We never doubted your allegiance; we only feared what Fe’rein could extract from you and E’Malkai, if necessary. If you did not know that I was behind the Resistance, then you would not be placing yourself in danger by coming to me,” reasoned Dean with a shrug.
Leane was furious, made obvious as she pushed herself up. Knocking away T’elen’s hand, she crossed her arms and turned toward the heat of the cauldron. “What about everyone else in Duirin? The families?”
There was a hint of regret in his voice, but his words betrayed any emotion. “They pay allegiance to no one, neither Culouth nor the Resistance. Their neutrality will keep them from harm. If and when Kyien marches here, and we still don’t know that he will, they will point them in our direction without thought.”
Leane spun.
Her dark eyes were ablaze, yet her voice was calm and even. “When we first came here you fell all over yourself with words of how war cannot be brought to Duirin, that it was a city of peace. Now, you speak of these people as if they were just empty shells, not your concern.”
Dean’s features soured, and the line of his mouth grew thin. “When Ryan returned and became Fe’rein, it changed my outlook on many things. There has always been evil in Culouth. Never had they possessed an instrument with as much malice and ill-contempt as that boy.”
“That changed many of our lives, not just your own,” replied Leane. The memory of Seth was still so strong after almost two decades.
The conversation would rage for some time, though it was nothing more than the same arguments argued again. The necessity for the Resistance members of Duirin to be evacuated to Illigard to make a final stand would present itself sooner than any of them would care to admit.
ⱷ
E’Malkai
E’Malkai awoke slowly. Pushing himself onto his elbows, he surveyed his surroundings. What had happened was a bit of a blur to him, and what he now saw enhanced that confusion. He lay on a cushioned blanket, the head of it raised slightly like a pillow. He was inside a structure that was constructed of fabrics and cloth.
His pack lay at his side, and he patted his chest and found that the hilt of his father’s blade was still tucked beneath his coat, hidden from view. The fabrics of the structure swayed as the winds outside beat against them. The reality of where he was sunk back in: the tundra.
He grunted as he struggled to his feet.
His muscles were sore, and his mind was numb and throbbing at the same time. A shadow crossed the fabric, the outline of something gargantuan, and E’Malkai reeled. Pulling the pack with him, he scuttled toward the back of the tent as the shadow approached the front flaps.
E’Malkai held a scream in his throat as the shadowed figure reached down. Time seemed to stop. As the concerned features of Elcites were revealed, the fluidity of time was restored once more. The guardian was covered in white splashes of snow, making it appear like he had grown old.
“You are awake, my sien?” His words rumbled, though not at the volume E’Malkai remembered in Culouth. The winds were cold amid the silence all around him, a deafening theater.
E’Malkai felt his fear dissolve into embarrassment, mistaking the shadow of his guardian for some beast. He cleared his throat before he spoke. “Yes. How long have I been out?”
“Half a day,” he replied as he moved into the tent, filling the entrance so completely that E’Malkai would have sworn there was nothing beyond his guardian.
“We have lost much time here.”
“Not at all, the wolves were a necessary distraction. There will be worse things on the tundra, and far more perilous circumstances that will not allow the use of such a wonderful shelter. The storm is beginning to subside, so we will have to be on our way again soon.”
E’Malkai nodded as he pulled his pack closer to him, trying to shoulder it from a seated position. He managed to, though not without considerable effort and a rather sheepish grin from Elcites. “Will we have time to refresh our supplies?”
The smile disappeared. “I have already acquired as much as you can carry. Once we reach the marker, I am going to give you half of what I have remaining,” replied Elcites.
“How will I carry it?”
“We will refill whatever you use between here and the marker and then…” He pulled a smaller pack from around his back; one that could fit atop the one E’Malkai already wore. “…the rest I will place in this pack and attach it to what you have already, creating a greater burden on your body.”
The weight of their journey already felt insurmountable, but the closer they came to the tundra the more that E’Malkai felt like he would not return. The stories of the tundra and of the Fallen were daunting. His mother talked of the Fallen, of the beauty despite the inadequacy of supplies and engineering. Ryan––he had to begin to use that name, for the Fallen would not recognize the other––had spoken only of the harsh tundra and the cold that ate men alive.
“There is much hope placed upon me, isn’t there?”
The giant nodded.
“And if I fail?” queried E’Malkai, a sour look overtook him.
“Then we will fight without a champion. The Resistance and the armies of the wasteland will fight Culouth whether or not you return, but Fe’rein is the key. He will turn the tide in Culouth’s favor.”
“What can I do?” His head fell. Never in his life had he faced such a burden, such pressure placed on him. The fate of so many people lay at his feet, a responsibility for which he had not asked.
Elcites turned, pulling himself out of the tent as he responded.
“That is what remains to be seen, my sien.”
He disappeared out of the front of the tent. E’Malkai followed slowly, the soreness of his muscles more evident with each step he took. Outside was as he remembered. The level of snow had subsided to no more than a foot. The rest blew around in the cold winds that assaulted the land.
“Meet the soldiers of the outpost Linar,” called Elcites over the howl of the wind, gesturing to the dark-garbed men who stood around a fire close to the stone building in front of them.
“They did not seem happy to see you before,” replied E’Malkai, having to strain his voice over the wind.
The guardian seemed to do so with little effort.
“Attitudes have changed.”
The words were essentially lost as the two of them moved forward. The various glances of the soldiers found their way to both the guardian and E’Malkai.
The heavier one was the first to stand and greet him. “You have survived. That is good,” he spoke. The cold stole emotion. “I ask that you forgive my earlier impertinence. I was rude to you both. My name is Daniel, son of Jacob, and we would like you to join us by our fire.”
Laughter soon rolled over the night.
E’Malkai had awoken only hours before, but the men of Linar insisted that they stay and feast on the kill that they had taken, meaning the tundra wolves. The three of them made a mighty meal. The one called Daniel was their commander, a refugee who had been a boy when Seth and Ryan had journeyed south. He remembered only images and bits of speech from that time.
“I do remember a time when the sweepers came daily, relentless bastards they were,” echoed Daniel. There was a glazed look in his eyes, most likely from the flask that he drank from at regular intervals.
The thin man who had harbored so much hate previously seemed eager to forget that past and forge a new one. He was called Matthew, son of Michael. Even though he was only two years older than E
’Malkai, his long drawn face and hard eyes made him seem decades older.
“We have not seen many come this far north,” he then pointed north, “or any come this far south in some time. The presence of your guardian is what startled us the most. We thought you were one of the bands from the northeast, the Umordoc that still hunt humans.”
The guardian remained impassive, although he harbored questions. “Then the stories are true of the Fallen and the northern tribes that battle the Umordoc?” asked E’Malkai.
“Indeed, lad. Your guardian here is the sort that you would never find up north. He is civilized, cultured. Those in the north are savages, still as they were when the Intelligence first sent them here,” replied Daniel, taking a long drink of his flask and then licking his lips in satisfaction.
There were several others who crowded around the fire. The brace of the wolf having been eaten down to nothing, the others had been content to sit back and snore. Others were just happy with the silence of the night. But Daniel and Matthew seemed capable of hours of speech yet.
“How far is the Fallen from here?” queried E’Malkai.
Daniel grew silent, as well as Matthew, though he spoke first. “Farther than you can make on your own, even the two of you. We don’t go beyond the northern marker. It is a death sentence beyond there.”
Daniel hiccupped. “Why would you want to go there, lad? Nothing up there but ice and mountains that will freeze your soul and leave you dead.”
“That is where he must go,” conceded Elcites.
“He is just a boy. No offense there, lad,” replied Daniel.
E’Malkai shook his head: he didn’t understand it either.
“He is Armen.”
Both men gasped and looked at E’Malkai, wide-eyed. “That changes everything, doesn’t it?” echoed Matthew, his voice distant.
“Sure does,” agreed Daniel, draining the last of his flask.
“How does that change anything? I am not my father. I am not Ryan,” stammered E’Malkai. The overwhelming feeling of being trapped overtook him, and he felt his heart hammer and his breath catch in his throat.
